


Somewhere Alive and Green

by asparkofgoodness



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fluff, Healing, Light Angst, M/M, Moving In Together, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 15:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21340495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asparkofgoodness/pseuds/asparkofgoodness
Summary: Somewhere in the South Downs, there is a house for sale. The road turns to cobblestones on the way to it, and the driveway twists around a pond, a field, an overgrown orchard, and two fox dens before arriving at the tree-blanketed entrance. Abandoned years ago, the house desperately needs repair: the roof leaks, the wallpaper is peeling off in patches, the floorboards have twisted with the dampness of the springtimes, the kitchen tap never fully turns off. The house doesn’t know it, but it’s waiting for a certain buyer, one who will stumble upon it, cursing the cobblestones for roughing up his tires, squinting through dark glasses at its facade before deciding: it could work.  They could find peace there.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 127





	Somewhere Alive and Green

**Author's Note:**

> This is for anyone who has encouraged me these past months with kudos or kind words. After I finished Whumptober, I thought I needed a break, but the very next day, I found I just couldn't not write something. Your encouragement is partly to blame for this passion: thank you. This is also for our dear characters, who truly deserved some love and fluff after all I put them through this past month. I wanted something that would bring a sense of closure and contentment to my recent work. I hope this accomplishes that goal.

Somewhere in the South Downs, there is a house for sale. The road turns to cobblestones on the way to it, and the driveway twists around a pond, a field, an overgrown orchard, and two fox dens before arriving at the tree-blanketed entrance. Abandoned years ago, the house desperately needs repair: the roof leaks, the wallpaper is peeling off in patches, the floorboards have twisted with the dampness of the springtimes, the kitchen tap never fully turns off. The house doesn’t know it, but it’s waiting for a certain buyer, one who will stumble upon it, cursing the cobblestones for roughing up his tires, squinting through dark glasses at its facade before deciding: it could work.They could find peace there.

Somewhere in London, there is an angel who wanders the streets.He walks to escape his ghosts, though they trail behind him.It’s hard to shake thousands of years of repression and denial, nearly impossible to lose instincts conditioned through ages of abuse.The terror of a war narrowly avoided; the possibility of another on the horizon.The guilt of the arguments, the times he pushed him away with cold, trite remarks he’d first heard on the tongues of other angels.The pain of letting go of a hand that had just transformed into his own, of not saying “I love you” or “goodbye” but “Berkeley Square, soon as we can” instead and watching him walk away for what might have been the last time.The uncertainty and newness of it all now: the sweet taste of confessions lingering on his tongue, the memory of hands in his hair and on his hips, the thousand questions rattling in his head.Even when sitting still in his bookshop, attempting to read, Aziraphale’s mind meanders down mental avenues of what-ifs and worries.He knows he should feel immense relief – after all, the world was saved, and they haven’t heard from their head offices in months now – but he feels, instead, like one sinking slowly in a patch of quicksand.

Somewhere in A.Z. Fell & Co., there is a demon lurking.The angel is dealing with a would-be customer, so he is bored and annoyed.He hides between the bookshelves, absentmindedly rearranging the titles until they’re in alphabetical order, which he knows will earn him a half-hearted scolding.Something is still wrong.Still, even though the apocalypse did not come.Even though they’re not being watched any longer.Even though he woke up that morning in Aziraphale’s four-poster bed and was met with a mug of tea and a kiss when he finally dragged himself into the kitchen, eyes half-closed with the foggy remnants of sleep.Something is still wrong, and he suspects it has to do with this place, for him at least.Adam restored what he could.He brought back the structure, the rugs and chairs and sofa, the desk, the flat upstairs.He supplied new books, though not exactly ones Aziraphale would have selected if he’d had any input.What Adam couldn’t fix was the smell of burning paper, the memory of flames licking at his heels and loss eating away at his core until he had to scream from the anger and pain.As he touched the spines of the books, he recalled picking up Agnes’, not thinking but feeling the need to save something, anything, whatever he could, if he couldn’t save Aziraphale.Something is still wrong, and for Crowley, it is the way London has become a graveyard: the shop where he thought Aziraphale had been lost forever, his flat where they spent an anxious night preparing for their trials, the park where the flutter of black wings had signaled their abductions, the bandstand and the sidewalk where Aziraphale had twice refused to escape with him, the bar where he had settled in, alone, to wait for the world to end.Humans visit graveyards to pay their respects, and then they leave; they don’t live in them, and for good reason.Healing requires distance.If it was distance they needed, then Crowley would find it for them.

Somewhere in the tendrils of the cold October winds, there is a question waiting to be asked.It is not “Should I go back to mine now?” because Aziraphale makes it clear that he wants Crowley to stay close, so it need not be asked.Bit by bit, his flat becomes theirs, plants and records appearing slowly enough that Aziraphale fails to notice for weeks.It is not “Are you alright?” because Crowley has asked this already, one chilly evening when he caught Aziraphale completely ignoring the film they had picked out to watch together.As a snow pile gives way when warming temperatures melt the support beneath its icy outer layer, Aziraphale had visibly collapsed inward, covering his face with trembling hands.Gently, Crowley had pulled Aziraphale to him, holding him while he sobbed, and he had shed a few of his own tears, too, though he did not know if Aziraphale had noticed.The time would come when Aziraphale could put words to his pain, but in the meantime, Crowley had matched his silence, using touch to tell him _I am here, and I understand.We’re safe now.It’s okay._The question is not “Do you love me?”The answer is clear in Crowley’s hands and in his eyes and in the little gifts he brings home: pastries, flowers, films he thinks Aziraphale might like, wine he knows he does.And the answer is clear in Aziraphale’s smile and in his saccharine compliments that redden Crowley’s cheeks and in his habit of reading in bed each night, instead of in his usual armchair, so he can keep watch as Crowley sleeps.That is one question neither will ever need to ask; they have known the other’s answer for years already, as plainly as one knows one’s name.

“What would you say to relocating?”When Crowley finally builds up the courage to ask, he spits it out like a confession, slurring his words more from nervousness than intoxication.His eyes don’t leave the television screen.On it, Indiana Jones is fighting desperately to free himself and his father from a room being consumed by fire.The red-orange of the television flames casts flickering color onto the walls of the dark room, making Crowley’s heartbeat quicken. 

He feels Aziraphale turn to look up at him.“To the bedroom, you mean?”A hand slides over his thigh.

Crowley laughs at that, surprised.“No.Well, uh, sure, I’m game, just… not what I meant.From London, I mean.”

The hand stills.“Leave London?”

“Mm, well, yeah.Just a thought.”

He knows Aziraphale’s eyes are still on his face.He’s watching Indy and his dad take shelter in a fireplace, and he can feel his face flush with self-doubt.He wonders why he ever thought this was a good idea.Aziraphale, he knows, avoids change at all cost.He rereads the same books over and over.He cycles through the same old records time and again.He has worn nearly the same clothes for over 150 years.Of course he doesn’t want to uproot his life, move hours away, from city to countryside, sell his bookshop, downsize, leave his old life behind, and for what?For a tiny town and quaint, nosy neighbors and a dull, monotonous existence in a run-down cottage with Crowley?

“A thought that has honestly never occurred to me,” Aziraphale admits, “but one worthy of consideration now, I believe.”Thinking about selling his shop, packing up all of his books, and leaving his familiar orbit was overwhelming, but he had grown bolder lately.He could envision leaving the noise and bustle of the city for someplace quieter, more peaceful, as long as he did not leave alone.“Where would we go?”

Crowley blinks and turns to meet his gaze.He sees the hopeful trust in his pale blue eyes and all doubt within him vanishes.“Anywhere you like, angel.”

“Hmm.”Aziraphale thinks for a moment.“Somewhere green and spacious, where it’s quiet at night.”

“And properly dark?”

“So we can see the stars.”

“Be nice to have water nearby, too,” Crowley adds, thinking of the magnetic push and pull of waves.

“Oh, yes, being close to the coastline would be just lovely.”

They smile at each other, enjoying the vision of the future each can see sparkling in the other’s eyes.“Got a place in mind, then,” Crowley says.“Just south of here.Bit damp and boring, but it checks all those boxes.”

“After all we have endured recently, ‘boring’ sounds quite nice to me.”

“Alright, uh, I can take you to see it sometime, if you like.”

With a sound of contentment, Aziraphale turns again and settles back under Crowley’s arm.He gazes around the small, cluttered room, imagining his belongings in a house they truly shared, somewhere far from London’s ghosts.He takes a deep breath.“Tomorrow?”

The rise and fall of Crowley’s chest against Aziraphale’s back pauses.“Sure,” Crowley says quietly.“Tomorrow.”

Somewhere deep inside them both, there are knots starting to relax.Moving day will slacken the lines, Crowley breathing a sigh of relief as he says a silent goodbye to the bookshop, holding the Bentley’s door open for Aziraphale.Aziraphale smiling at the gentle warmth of the afternoon sun and the crisp cleanliness of the country air as he walks toward their new front door.Both laughing as they bicker playfully about their clashing tastes in home furnishings, unpacking and rearranging rooms with waves of their hands.Crowley will eye the long-neglected orchard, promise to get it into shape, and Aziraphale will take his hand, thinking of Eden and the hope that lies in fresh, green worlds.The knots will slowly wind themselves away, their tension releasing as autumn turns to winter. 

“I should have gone with you,” Aziraphale will whisper one evening.The first snowflakes of the season will be dancing down from the heavens outside their window.They’ll have a fire in the fireplace and a soft, worn tartan blanket for warmth.

Crowley will sit up slightly from his reclined position on the sofa, baffled by the random declaration.“What?Where?”

“Alpha Centauri.”

“Oh.”After a frozen second, he will fall back down, turning his head to hide his face from Aziraphale.“Nah, dumb idea.”

“It was not,” Aziraphale will insist.“I couldn’t see it at the time, but I know now that… well, my trust was most certainly misplaced.”He will fidget nervously with the edge of the blanket.“I should have followed you.I’d like to think I would have, eventually.That is, if I hadn’t gotten myself discorporated.”

A long enough silence will follow that Aziraphale will pick his book back up, having time to read half a page before Crowley speaks again.“Couldn’t have followed later.Wasn’t going by myself.Not the point.But don’t apologize.It’s not like I handled it all well.Shouldn’t have stormed off and left you to figure it out alone.”

Aziraphale will smile sadly at his words, reaching for his hand.“Well, this house is much cozier than any star system, anyway.I am so glad I accepted your invitation this time around, my dear.”

Lacking the words for a response, Crowley will stand, grabbing their wine glasses and stepping toward the kitchen to refill them when he sees what he is doing and stops.He will remind himself he does not need to run any longer; he can allow this, even admit he may deserve it.He will lean in close and stoop to kiss the angel’s wine-stained lips.

There will be many more nights in front of fires, huddled together for warmth.There will be experiments in cooking (mostly successful) and knitting (largely disastrous, though Aziraphale will stick with it stubbornly) and home repairs.There will be tacky Christmas decorations and snow angels and lights.There will be kisses that taste of cocoa and oversized sweaters from the local souvenir shop: Aziraphale will have to pout for a good half an hour before Crowley relents and puts his on.There will be deer grazing in the fields and snow blanketing the ground.Eventually, the knots of fear and doubt will fall away entirely, and they will settle into their own lives, on their own side, together, in their house that is so much more than a house.A refuge for two weary souls in need of rest.A sanctuary, where each will heal with the other’s help.A house, somewhere in the South Downs, that will become a home.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this piece. I'm on [Tumblr as thetunewillcome](https://thetunewillcome.tumblr.com/) if you'd like more _Good Omens_ softness.


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